Kenya: the hard road barefoot lost shepherd
I wake up early in the rudimentary shelter of the master. I run around the track torn. Only the green wilderness around me. I am immersed in the heart of Africa and that makes me feel alive, alert, happy. What is a ground floor hard and wild. Here safaris fail. No colorful Masai or song and dance festivals, only a very poor shepherds whom drought has killed cattle. International aid has saved humans but is becoming beggars. The atrocious dependence of Ethiopia can be repeated here. The sun rises over me and I feel it is time to return to camp. We expected a long day of stones and dust. The daylight hours are scarce and yet I can not predict the number of events that will precipitate along the journey.
Before we left, tell us that the road is very bad, many stones. It is true. The track is worse in this than in the previous section, much worse. First is dry mud and deep ruts huge when the BMW almost completely submerged. Although yes, the stage is supernatural. Huge and sunny with a high ridge in the distance covered by clouds that show sharp saw her silhouette The highest is Mount Kenya, one of the major peaks in Africa. We came across some wild animals as a silver fox or a small antelope that come in pairs. It's hot, the plateau is dotted with a short grass and brush, acacias dot the horizon here and there. No one, only the sun, the wind and the silence. As we are entering in this desolate territory increases the feeling of unreality, living on another planet. In this realm of evanescence which skate over rocks is a succession of amazing encounters. In a long line filled with coarse gravel divisive and two shadows in the distance. Two hikers. When I'm close to them I say something. I can not hear them because of the crunch of wheels on the alluvial material. Brake on shaky ground and I turn to see what they want. Two emaciated African fibrous. Two pastors without cattle. Two wandering souls. In perfect English one, the youngest, turns to me and asked if this road I saw a man without shoes.
-I have seen many-confirmed.
-Bring a jacket like this, says picking the peer, a sort of greenish above and grimy, two or three sizes larger than those needed.
I shake my head. -I did not notice, acknowledge-, I have come across people but I'm too focused on the road.
The conversation has gained surrealistic and absurd that shoot to the nth degree when after having stared at each other without saying anything for a while I ask them why they seek.
He has lost my partner says. Literally: “He lost his way”. Has lost its way. Lose yourself? Getting lost is impossible here, much less lose your way. There is no way that this wound stone in the desert. This atrocious path goes from Moyale to Isiolo and nothing more. There is no alternative. No other option. Nothing short circular one way or another. Right now we are one of the most remote sections of any population: twenty or thirty miles from Turbi and fifty or sixty of Bubissa. Here there is no option to miss, two walkers yet mysterious, two poor shepherds without cattle, pursued for some strange reason other even poorer than they that he has no shoe. The track is getting bad, bad, terrible. It is very demanding even for me, but Alice is an ordeal. The circular look hard and I admire their determination. He wanted to try the track Moyale and cry inside the helmet due to impotence. When I have to take your bike to exceed a particular stretch fucking amazes me how difficult it is to govern. No wonder it hurts shoulder, arms, hands. Go to sleep continuously and is normal. You must make a terrible force to keep Discovered in the path and it does not fall.
In perfect English one, the youngest, turns to me and asked if this road I saw a man without shoes
Is fed, tired, depressed, but go forward. It is a brave has finally met with the wave that I predicted. Yesterday I was elated, Turbi happy sleeping on a cot and eating old hen. The total immersion in African nature that does not appear on the postcards I was sitting well, but had a bad night because of the fucking donkeys, that did not stop braying. I did not hear them, but she has a fine ear. Just fell asleep an hour straight and is now exhausted. Yesterday he fell and was amused. The track was difficult but not impossible, suffering but amused. Today there is nothing that. Today there is only despair at the inability to adapt. Not your fault, but a bike is not designed for this area. Cries, suffers, moans, but fight. We should see some macho fucker in this way. Surely many did not give much of himself as her. I admire admire his determination. One has gotten into this mess and does not make anyone responsible for this. I know this track has only 500 kilometers and that bad things are going there is always a solution and that in three days we will be in Nairobi drinking beer and eating delicatessen. Even so, I put myself in his shoes, I feel your pain and admire your courage. It is a great woman of small size and immense strength.
At about half past two p.m., when he took about five hours away spotted a labor camp. It is the base of Chinese building new road and shortly afterwards a group of a few low buildings. Ice Bubisa, where the hotel is owned gasoline I can provide. Nothing adds more appear a cohort of kids who accompanies us to the small restaurant where an elderly Muslim modest sells supplies to the Chinese company workers. I notice two curious signs prohibited: can not smoke or chew myrrh.
The types of place inform us that the track is much better since the Chinese are working on it. We believe and we are able to reach Marsabit in the evening. We started the bikes, we get where we show and just a mile after leaving the village a disaster happens that both feared. Alicia goes ahead, above a small slope, find a patch of sand, the rear wheel skids, sump guard hit a rock and falls.
I go and help her up. Then we realize that oil is dripping. Discovered bleeds. It has broken the crankcase cover and soon the engine run out of lubricant. It's the end of the bike ride around the track of Moyale. Alicia collapses. If he asks to sollozar. I understand perfectly. With what has cost overcoming hurdles to get here much more complicated and effort is truncated by a small rock that stands just a few inches off the ground. But he had gotten a lot of stones between the engine and the protector. Striking against it dry, it was as if a knife cut off butter. I kneel beside her and tell her not to worry, is not a serious, nothing happens, easy to fix, we are in the best place for this happened. Not only can fix any local mechanic in Nairobi but there is a great mechanic, Chris, German owner of Jungle Juction. I've seen repair any damage with few resources. In addition there is even a BMW dealership. All we need is to bring the bike to Nairobi, so it is urgent to seek help. I look around and see that we are facing a nomadic village and on a parallel track to that used by the Chinese to transport materials. I go to that track work and I signaled to the first Land Cruiser passing. The driver is a young African. I explain the situation and tells me he can not do anything, it's just a worker, but in the Chinese camp sure will help me. Amount with him and we headed that way.
Comments (2)
A two-wheeled
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Another story Cojon… You're a crack, I love to live your travel. I follow and I love your stories. About, the book is A Million Stones cane.
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Josean
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Dale Miquel gas, dale!! You're all proud to bikers. Aventurón often. Throw miles and look for all those who will never see these landscapes.
From a biker in the reserve
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